


Something Permanent

by TechnicolourGrey



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dislin, F/M, Tattoo, Tattoos, tattooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicolourGrey/pseuds/TechnicolourGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the evening before the quest for Erebor, Dwalin wants something to remember Dís by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Permanent

The evening settled on the Blue Mountains in warm breezes and skies of navy blue, speckled with stars. Spring had swept in early from the north, melting the harsh snows and glaciers which the inhabitants of the mountain range had suffered barely weeks before; birds sang from the their nests in the deep crevices, fresh grass sprouted in the cracks and a placid wind sailed around the peaks.

Despite the pleasant night, however, inside the mountains – the communal halls, the dining rooms, the homes hewn from the rock – the air was rife with anticipation. Whispers and murmurs fluttered about like moths in the night, whirling from mouth to ear as if to a flame, becoming increasingly more animated as their wingspan grew larger and they carried all along the mountain ridge. The dwarves of the Blue Mountains rumoured and insinuated over their legs of ham and their pitchers of mead, raising them in salute and daring to hope that the rumours were true; that thirteen dwarves would be travelling on the morrow dawn to fulfil a great quest. That soon, Erebor would be reclaimed.

The room of the Durin princess, however, held no mutters or hearsay. Deep in the tallest mountain of the range, in her quarters, the air smelt of metal and burning pine. Numerous candles occupied the perimeter of the room like tiny sentinels, stuttering and laughing and watching her closely with their warm glow, pools of wax which rippled like water soaking their feet.

On a wooden chair in the middle of the room, bathed in firelight, one of the chosen thirteen, Dwalin, son of Fundin, sat. His browned chest was bare, turned the colour of bronze. His boots had been kicked off at the door, as the rooms owner had curtly told him to do, and he sat with bare feet in trousers made of boar hide, a belt of bear skin, fur still attached, around his hips. A low wooden table at his side held an assortment of items; a bowl of steaming water and a towel, a roll of bandage made from intricately woven cotton, an ornately decorated straight razor, a hand mirror, a bottle of alcohol. A candle at the table's corner lit it all with its sputtering light.

The inhabitant of the room, the last remaining woman of the line of Durin, stood in the corner by the lit cooking fire. She was facing him, pounding ingredients inside a mortar and pestle. The muscles in her exposed arms flexed as she crushed the pestle into the bowl; she was bare to the midriff save for a necklace of tiny sapphires, her legs covered by trousers of supple deer skin. Her face was angular and handsome, framed by broad shoulders and long plaits fashioned in her dark hair. A line of hair brushed down in front of her ears and swept into a thick beard, adorned with braids in silver clasps. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "It could go horribly wrong."

“We’ll see,” Dwalin smirked. “What’ve you made it out’ve?”

“Hm, let me think. One pound of pine bark, corroded bronze ground with vinegar,” she reeled off nonchalantly as she sifted the powder into a small bowl, “two ounces of gall, and an ounce of iron sulphate. Some carbon and soot to turn for black pigment. Soaked in two parts water-” she poured water from a wooden cup into the bowl “-and one part leek juice as a carrier-” she added the contents of another cup “-and we’re done.” She stepped towards him; her feet made soft padding sounds on the stone floor.

“Sounds good t’me.”

“I should hope so. I got it from a good source.” Unabashedly, Dís sat upon his lap, one leg on each side of his hips, like mounting a horse she was about to break. She placed the bowl on the table beside the chair and, with one hand, pushed his hair and beard over his shoulders while the other hand took hold of the straight razor. “Hold still,” she warned, holding the blade at the skin on his chest. “And no talking.” She dragged it downwards, slicing off a patch of course hair with practised ease. When she wiped the blade on her trousers and returned it to the table, Dwalin's hands moved to gently hold her hips. Meeting his intense gaze, Dís removed a pin from her hair.

"You'd better keep staying still," Dís warned. "If it goes wrong I won't be held responsible."

A laugh rumbled from deep in Dwalin's throat. "I've dealt with this before, lass. And dealt with pain from you, too. I'm sure combinin' 'em won't be too different."

"Are you talking about the time when I broke your nose?"

"Both times, aye."

Dís smiled mischievously before reaching for the bottle on the table and splashing alcohol on Dwalin's chest. She watched his face as she absently rubbed it in.

"I've never done anything like this before." 

"I trust you," Dwalin replied gruffly. At first he was surprised by how soft Dís' hands were, and then was struck by the notion that every time he felt the touch of her hand the softness surprised him. "Besides, I'm not walkin' around with part of my chest shaved with nowt on it."

"Fine," Dís conceded, moving closer to him. "On your head be it." She drew in a deep breath and leant down towards his chest. "Here we go." She exhaled and, taking a firm grip on her hairpin, drove it into his skin. Dís heard Dwalin hiss through gritted teeth, but he hid it behind the clearing of his throat. "Is that...?"

"Until it bleeds."

Dís looked up at his face to find his eyes closed tightly. She leant in and kissed him gently on the beard, to which he seemed to instantly calm. She waited until blood was pooling in the hole around the hairpin before removing it and inserting it, this time with a little more force, into his chest next to the first hole. He barely made a noise, and so she continued.

Minutes passed like days as they sat together, Dís squinting at her slowly developing work, her tongue between her teeth in concentration. Her hairpin glinted in the firelight like the flash of an arrow in the sun, and rivulets of blood trickled from Dwalin's chest towards his midriff.

"It's hardly the pictorial tale on your head," Dís murmured distractedly, "but at least it's something to remember me by."

"As if I could forget you."

Dís laughed low in her throat and stopped to wipe the blood from the pin on her trousers. "Then why do you need this?"

Dwalin shrugged and grimaced as pain shot through his chest. "Motivation? 'Cause at some point I'm gonna need remindin' why I'm goin' on this bloody quest in the first place." He paused, watching her face, before continuing, "I’d give anythin' for Thorin. Y'ken that full well. We've fought wars against each other and beside each other, and we're all the better fer it. But sometimes when yer fightin' tooth 'n' nail it's hard to remember what yer doin' it fer. And fer this quest I definitely need t'remember. 'Cause it's nae just him I'm fightin' fer now. It's fer all of us."

Dís pursed her lips into a tight line. “You do know you don’t have to go, Dwalin? Thorin would understand, and no one would think you any less of a man.”

Dwalin breathed in deeply. A dark look settled under his brows. “Dís, this isnae about pride. Nor is it even about Thorin. Not really.” He breathed out, and looked to the cooking fire distractedly. He coughed offhandedly at the back of his throat. “I’m not a sentimental man, Dís. I dunnae have any precious jewels to covet. I dunnae have possessions I can’t let go of if circumstances call fer it. I dunnae have children to care fer, no wife to come heim to, and I havenae even seen Balin in many a moon, and I have already mastered my skill.” His mind wandered to weighty battle axes and colossal mallets which had become the sign of his trade; weapons formed with blood, strain and sweat which had calloused his hands and strengthened his arms in the darkest hours of the morning when he worked, sleepless; when the rhythm of hammer and anvil and the hiss of hot metal sinking into water was his lullaby. He shook his head. “I cannae sit here while some young lad who has prospects for a wife and dwarflings and a skill to master gives his life for Erebor when it should be me among them. And if I can in some way help to recover our heim, _your_ heim, then help I will.”

Dís licked her lips. She nodded, seeming to deeply consider his words, but seemed to form no words to reply. Instead she leant back down.  "Almost done," she murmured. She pricked the needle into his skin, becoming more confident with how much force to apply. Then – "Dwalin, do you remember Erebor?"

He let out a breath which resembled a laugh and smirked. "Y'ken I was a babe in arms when Erebor was taken."

"That wasn't what I asked.”

He sighed and shifted his legs beneath her lap. "I remember... warm. S’different to the warm in the Blue Mountains, and tha' of all the towns of men we stopped at on the way here. It's a different warm to anywhere I ever remember bein’, so I guess it must've been Erebor. And sometimes I have dreams about huge pillars and rivers of gold and..." He trailed off. "It's silly."

"No, it's not," she purred. "I was only ten when Smaug attacked. I only remember a few things, like..." She put the hairpin down on the table and reached for the hand mirror, holding it up to reflect the inflictions in his chest. "What do you think?" 

The dotted pattern which Dís had stabbed into his skin formed two tilted squares overlapping each other, joining to produce a smaller square. It lay just above his heart.

He touched it gently, tracing the shapes. "S'great."

"You never were a man of many words."

He smiled despite himself. "I love it, Dís. Truly. I’d nae trade it for the Durin the Deathless himself."

"I'm glad, since you're soon going to be stuck with it." She placed the mirror back down, shifting to get more comfortable on his lap.

"So what’s it you remember?"

"I remember huge chambers built into the mountain, so much grander than anything we have here. And a hog roast." She smiled and took the bowl from the table. "Ready?"

"Mm."

She scooped up a handful of the viscous mixture. She absently rubbed it into her fingers for a moment before pressing it to Dwalin's chest, where she had been inserting her needle. While he breathed deeply through his nose she rubbed it in, gently but forcefully. "I don't know how old I was at that hog roast," she continued wistfully, "but I remember by grandfather at the head of the table. And my father was there, laughing. Drinking. Frerin was sneaking the best cuts of meat onto mine and Thorin's plates."

Though she tried to hide it, Dwalin heard the quiver in her voice. He tightened his grip on her hips momentarily in an attempt to comfort her. "Much’s been lost to us, lassie. But now we’ll try to regain something tha’ was once ours. We'll get back our true heim and the honour of yer family. Just you see."

"I hope so, Dwalin," she smiled wanly. "I hope so." She put down the bowl and reached for the towel, dipping it in the warm water. Slowly, she wiped away the blood which had trickled down and pooled in the creases of his abdomen. She brought the towel upwards, cleaning away any trails of blood and the excess metallic solution on his chest. "I know the group that Thorin has assembled is our last chance for Erebor, and that there is no one else who would try and regain our homeland..." She paused, swallowed. "But I would rather none of you go."

"We may be mostly agein' warriors," Dwalin smirked, "but there's still life in these old dogs yet."

"I know, Dwalin. I know you can handle yourself, and that I must keep hope. But I cannot lose anyone else. My grandfather, father, brother, all at Azanulbizar. Then my husband. I could not bare to lose my eldest brother. My sons.” The towel stopped moving on his chest. “You." 

He lowered his head. "You've been a widow too long, Dís."

"And I shall be my entire life, Dwalin."

"You can marry again."

Dís smiled softly. "Not as a member of royalty. I am supposed to set an example of a good wife. Even if I could, who would want my hand now?"

Dwalin fell quieter, clearing his throat. Dís raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I would give up all the gold in Erebor for your hand," he murmured in barely more than a breath.

Her smile broadened. "Still? After all these years, Dwalin, son of Fundin?" She touched his bristly cheek. "By the Great Azaghal himself, I do believe you are blushing."

Dwalin breathed out haughtily through his nose.

"Well perhaps, once you have displayed your loyalty to my brother in this way, and you have regained Erebor..." She trailed off thoughtfully, taking a dry corner of the towel and tenderly dabbing his chest dry from blood and water. By the time she finished her sentence she was wrapping the single strip of bandage tightly around the girth of Dwalin's chest. "Perhaps he will see that there are others out there who do care for the line of Durin and-" she tied the bandage at his shoulder "-he will allow me to marry again."

"I do hope so, Dís," Dwalin muttered gruffly.

"And I also." She pressed her hands to his chest and inched them upwards, stroking over his broad shoulder blades; he traced his rough fingers over her skin to rest at the small of her back. She was leaning closer, near enough for their bare chests to touch, and suddenly Dwalin could follow the shine of the candles in her beard braids, memorise in detail every eyelash, and count the freckles dotted under her eyes, peppered over the bridge of her nose.

Their lips met with passion, rough and practised, refined over years of illicit encounters. Dís snaked her arms around Dwalin's neck as they found a comfortable level of dominance which both shared, equal in their embrace. She pressed closer, wrapping her legs around the back of the chair as he stroked up her back with calloused hands.

When she broke away, her voice was stern, but Dwalin detected a wavering note.

"Look after them for me, Dwalin." She swallowed, trying to regain a tone of authority. "Bring them back to me. All three of them. All three of my boys. Promise me." She stroked her hands into the course hair of his beard, holding his face and forcing him to fix his eyes on her. "And you. You come back to me too. I won't care how many bites you have this time, either." She feathered a touch over the mangled outline of his right ear, wanly smiling. "Just... come back to me. Promise me. Promise me."

And then she kissed him, and it was a kiss of so many years of bitter resentment and a longing for home which she could never express, which she had to hide for the sake her brothers. It was a kiss of the desperate aching for all of those she had lost, the concern of a mother for sons she was helpless to stop leaving, the injustice of it all. For the first time, she allowed him to hold her at her most vulnerable.

Dwalin was the first to break away. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against hers to spare her the shame he knew she would feel if he saw her face. “I promise I’ll do m’best, Dís.” They wrapped their arms around one another in the darkling light, the candles dim and clinging to life on their burnt out wicks. He nodded, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “By the Great Azaghal, I promise I’ll try.”


End file.
